


Dance Me To The End Of Love

by A_Candle_For_Sherlock, chiglock (JJLiberty)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Feels, BAMF John, Ballroom Dancing, Bisexual John Watson, Case Fic, Evil Mary Morstan, F/F, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Angst, It's For a Case, John has a plan and Sherlock doesn't know about it, Love Confessions, M/M, Mary is Not Nice, No Smut, POV John, Past Suicidal Thoughts, Pining, Secret Intelligence Service | MI6, Serial Killers, That wife, Yes they get to dance together at the gay wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-11 02:41:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8950735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Candle_For_Sherlock/pseuds/A_Candle_For_Sherlock, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJLiberty/pseuds/chiglock
Summary: The most significant wedding of the year is about to end in tragedy. William Harden and Cyril Morton are getting married, and all of England's political elite will be there--along with a serial killer, a blackmailed waiter, a terrified philanthropist, a half-dozen covert operatives, and Sherlock Holmes, who's brought a date: John.





	1. I Almost Shot You Just Now

**Author's Note:**

> Jen/chiglock is the heart and soul of this fic; it's her plot, and her writing forms the core of the story--I (A_Candle_For_Sherlock) simply filled in details. All the case-related research is hers, too--I'd have never had the courage to attempt it without her. And her virtuosic knowledge of music created the soundtrack for the dancing lessons and the wedding.
> 
> This was inspired by a tumblr prompt from @the-7-percent-solution: "Dammit, Sherlock, I didn’t take all those waltzing lessons for nothing!" 
> 
> “Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on  
> Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long  
> We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above  
> Dance me to the end of love.” --Leonard Cohen

“John, are you listening to me? When Rosie finishes the bottle I left in the refrigerator, there's more milk in the freezer. Don't microwave it, thaw it in a warm bowl of water. And remember, when she’s cranky, she likes it if you sing to her...mmm, on second thought, don't sing; you’re rubbish at carrying a tune. The music box on the table next to the crib will do. And if she—“  
  
“Mary." John stretches out the fist his hand has formed, rests it flat on the kitchen table. Mary's packed, he's promised to take care of the dishes; she could leave right now. She just keeps talking. "I’ve been studying medicine for half my life. I’ve spent three years treating wounded soldiers into bloody Afghanistan. I think I can take care of my baby daughter for one night.”

Mary sighs. "Of course you can.”  
  
John elects to ignore the condescension in her voice. “Everything will be fine. I’ll hold down the fort here. You go and enjoy yourself.”  
  
“Are you really ready for this?"  
  
_“Yes,_ Mary.”  
  
“Alright, but if anything happens, call my mobile and I’ll rush right home.” She's got her keys in one hand, the other on the handle of the door. _Just leave._  
  
John pushes away from the table, stands. “You’re spending the weekend in Sussex. By the time you rush home, whatever terrible scenario you’re envisioning will already be over.  And right now Janine’s out there waiting for you. So give me your bag, I’ll put it in the boot, and you both can be on your way.”

Mary's brows rise. Gray eyes widen.  “When you say it like that, it sounds like you’re trying to get rid of me.”  
  
John elects to ignore that shot as well.  
  
She steps aside as he moves to the door; pulls it open, grips and hauls Mary’s suitcase up the steps to the curb, where Janine sits in a sleek red convertible--an Audi R8 Spyder. (Holy hell--how much money did she make off the sensationalized stories she'd sold to every sordid tabloid in England?) He places the suitcase in the boot and turns to say goodbye to Mary, but Janine speaks up. “John," she purrs, "how’s fatherhood treating you?”  
  
John clears his throat. “Yeah, good, it’s…good. How’s early retirement? Seems like you are getting on alright, thanks to those stories you sold to the papers. The fake ones about you and Sherlock and that hat he ‘made you wear.' How much did you make off of selling him out?”  
  
Mary snaps, “John!”  
  
Janine doesn’t seem put out. “It's fine. I've been just grand, John. How's Sherl?”  
  
Both women look expectantly at him. John clenches his jaw. _Sherl._ “He's fine. He’s Sherlock bloody Holmes. God only knows what he’s up to. Probably off raiding the morgue for severed ears or in a thrift shop somewhere analyzing a decade-old bloodstain on a painting from a house where someone was murdered.”  
  
“Of course." Janine gives him a sweet smile that John doesn’t buy for a second.  “When you see him, tell him he’s welcome to come visit any time. My groundskeeper built an apiary in the garden behind the cottage. It’s really lovely.”  
  
“An…apiary?”  
  
“Oh, you know, John. A bee yard. Sherl could never stop talking about bees when we were together. Loves them. He’s obsessed, really. It was adorable how excited he got when…well.” She must see something in the way John is staring at her, because she suddenly changes gears. “Anyways, wonderful to see you again, John. Best we be off then, Mary.”  
  
“Yes, well. Goodbye, dear. Remember to call if…”  
  
“It’ll be fine, Mary. Now, off you go.” John steers her towards the passenger side of the convertible.

Mary buckles herself in, but turns to John one last time. “And if she starts getting that diaper rash again be sure to—”  
  
John tilts his head toward the house. “Ah, do you hear that? I think Rosie might have woken from her nap.” He inclines his ear a bit more for added emphasis. “Yep, definitely her. I should go. You two have fun.”  
  
He shuts the door of the flat behind him just as Janine’s outrageously expensive car roars to life and peels off down the street. He listens for any indication that Rosamund has actually woken up, but there's only blessed silence. He lets out a long breath, rubbing a hand over his eyes.  
   
“Hello, John.”  
  
Before he's fully processed the sound, John’s pulled his gun from his waistband with steady hands. Then his mind catches up to what--who--he's hearing.  
  
“Jesus, Sherlock. What the hell are you---Do you have any idea—I almost shot you just now!”  
  
“Glad you didn't. Might be hard to explain that to Lestrade," Sherlock replies dryly, stepping out from the hallway where he’d been hidden from John’s view.  
  
They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment before John starts giggling a little hysterically. Sherlock's low chuckle joins in a moment later.  
  
John catches his breath and shakes his head. "You're as bad as bloody Mycroft. You could just ring the doorbell like a normal person."  
  
"John. Did you just compare me to _my brother?"_  
  
"Oh, I wouldn't dare."  
  
They grin at each other and John takes in the light in Sherlock's eyes, the way he's smiling like everything he wants is right there in that room and something in him uncurls, relaxes. “Right, so what are you doing here? News on Moriarty?”  
  
“Not yet. Can’t a man visit his…mate?”  
  
John frowns and holds up a finger to stop Sherlock.   
  
“First of all, please don’t ever use the word ‘mate’ in a sentence involving me again. Second of all, you've never come over here for a little visit. Ever. To the best of my knowledge, the great Sherlock Holmes doesn’t just visit people for the hell of it.”  
  
“Oh, no?” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirks up a bit at this.  
  
“No. So what is it then? The milk’s gone off and you can’t be arsed to make a Tesco run?”  
  
“Nothing quite that dire.”  
  
“What then?” John pulls out a kitchen chair and settles in. Sherlock leans against the counter.  
  
“Do you remember the investigation Mycroft asked me to join? The one necessitating my attendance at the Ambassador's wedding? I wanted to talk over a few elements of the case with you before I go. I could use your perspective. Tired of talking to the skull."  
  
“Oh, God, that's today. Wait, I didn't realize this was Mycroft's investigation. You don't normally like taking work from him."  
  
“Yes, but this involves murder. Several murders, and all the signs point to a single perpetrator. A serial killer."  
  
“Fair enough, but why's Mycroft involved? Murder's not really his area, is it?”  
  
“On any other day you would be correct. But we have credible intelligence suggesting that the murderer will target someone at the Ambassador’s wedding reception. The safety of the Ambassador and his guests, who I'm assured are generally very significant people in the international political arena, is a matter of 'national importance.’ Hence my brother's involvement.”  
  
“I see." John frowns, then says, "Remind me why on earth you're going after a serial killer without me? I know I'm ridiculously sleep-deprived and generally useless right now but I'd have thought I'd be in on this."  
   
"This is a very exclusive event. I got an invitation because I'm a Holmes. You're another matter. Mycroft could get you in, but you're not connected with any of their social circles. It would be fairly obvious you shouldn't be there to anyone paying attention.”  
   
"So you'll be there all alone? What if, I don't know, you're being shot at and you need backup?"  
   
"I have the option of a plus one. I already asked Lestrade to come with me as my date."  
   
John gapes. "You're joking."  
   
Sherlock throws up his hands. "For goodness' sake, John, I don't have a lot of choices here. Would you suggest I invite Donovan? Anderson? At least Lestrade can handle a gun. It's just for a couple of hours."  
   
John sits silent for a moment, contemplating the idea of Sherlock Holmes introducing Greg Lestrade to a group of diplomats as his plus one for the evening. Trying and failing to remember Greg's actual first name. Attempting polite conversation over wine and canapes, snooping and socializing without John there to smooth things over.  
   
John doesn't look him in the eye when he finally says, "And what if _I_ went as your date?"  
   
Sherlock's head snaps up. "John--" And he's speechless.  
   
"It makes sense. Why not? Everyone's always thought I was--that, anyway. No one would be surprised if we showed up together."

Sherlock's still staring. "But, John, you do realize that they'll all perceive you as...gay."  
   
"I told you before. It's fine. It's all fine." There's a silence. "Sherlock, I know. Just. It's been hard for me. People thinking I'm gay, it's always felt--not good, a bit risky, I guess. Puts me on edge. Bad history, and all that. But for this, with you, it would be okay."  
   
Sherlock's eyes narrow a bit and John realizes too late that he's as good as told the whole story to him, as perceptive as Sherlock is of things left unsaid. But all Sherlock says is, "Your sister is gay."  
   
"Yeah." He frowns at the floor.  
   
"Her coming out went over badly?"  
   
John laughs without humor. "You could say that."  
   
"Your parents objected. Violently, in the case of your father?" John nods, unable to meet his eyes. "And...your friends?"  
   
"I tried to stand up for her. To my parents and...yes. Friends. Schoolmates. Everyone. It really didn't go over well at all."  
   
"You mean you were bullied, too," Sherlock states. His tone is neutral, but he's watching John carefully. "And the army wouldn't have been any better. You and--well. It wouldn't have been okay."  
   
"Sorry?" John looks up and then realizes what Sherlock's implying. He hadn't thought Sherlock could possibly have noticed, but who was he kidding? Sherlock always saw everything. "You're right, it wouldn't--it wasn't—no." Sherlock just nods, and he doesn't have to say anything.  
   
John takes a deep breath, then another. Clenches and releases his hand. "Yes, well. What I was trying to say is, it'll be different with you. Now. It would be--good. I'd be bloody pleased to be your date." And if he hadn't been sure, the struck-speechless look Sherlock gives him then would have settled it for him.

"Alright," Sherlock says finally, quietly.  
   
Then, "Wait. I've got Rosie." John shakes his head. "God, what was I thinking? I can't take my baby to a wedding with a serial killer."  
   
"I have a suggestion," Sherlock says. "Molly Hooper."  
   
"Sorry?"  
   
"She could care for Rosamund while we are gone. She's nurturing, warm. Passably competent."  
   
"That could work, actually." John sits thinking about it. "Mary would never be okay with this."  
   
"She might not be," Sherlock agrees.  
   
"So I won't ask."  
   
Sherlock looks away quickly. "Of course. You stay with Rosie. I'll go with Lestrade."  
   
"No, you're misunderstanding me. I won't ask, I'll just tell her." He pulls out his mobile, types a few lines of text.  
   
"Tell her...what?" Sherlock asks carefully.  
   
"That I'm going on a case as your date. That I've got a babysitter and it'll be alright."  
   
His mobile chimes in his hand. He takes a breath and reads the text. Reads it again.  
   
"She's fine with it." He looks up at Sherlock. It's been a long time since Mary surprised him this much. "She's fine."  
   
Sherlock stands still for a long moment, then swings into action. Pacing around the room, firing off text after text. His phone pings with a few responses. "Alright," he says, "the wedding's in an hour. We can go over the case together now. I've requested Molly's assistance with Rosie and she's accepted. I've also broken up with Lestrade." He gives John a crooked half-smile and John snorts. "He's not too crushed. Says he'll look in on Molly and Rosie later. Anderson will be on the way shortly with your tuxedo."  
   
John's not sure which part of that last statement to address first. "You asked Anderson to come with--I have a tux already?"  
   
“You will soon. Mycroft's contribution. He has a tailor on call."  
   
John gives him a wry smile. "Of course he does. And he probably knows my measurements, too."  
   
"No, but I do. The wedding fittings, remember?"  
   
"Right. Of course, you just tucked that away in your mind palace then, huh? What else do you have on me in there?"  
   
"You'd be surprised." Sherlock smiles slightly, but his eyes stay serious. "We'll need to coordinate on our love story."  
   
“Love story?”  
   
“Yes, John, the story of how we met and fell in love."  
   
"Oh, God. Wait, so that means you and Greg had come up with a story about how you _fell in love?"_  
   
"No, we—" Sherlock stops. "No, our relationship is clearly more casual, even to an outside observer. All we had to do was tell the truth—we work together and our date was a one-off."  
   
"Ah.  Well." Neither of them are looking at each other now. "Wait, some of them are going to know about me and Mary. No, seriously, Sherlock, the bloody Queen reads my blog, so you know at least a few of these toffs will have too." There's a moment's silence. "I guess we can say Mary and I split up. I haven't updated it in--well. In a while."  
   
"Since the wedding." John looks up, surprised by Sherlock's tone. His expression is startlingly unguarded, almost lonely. John blinks, then remembers something.  
   
“Since the—Wait a tick. _You_ wrote the wedding post. Half of that entry was you pretending to be me. Then you spent the rest of it complaining about how I was on a ‘Sex Holiday’ with Mary! Not to mention, you promised to take photos if there were any attempted murders at my _next_ wedding.”  
   
“Well, you commented on it, so technically you contributed—”  
   
“To tell you off for posting nonsense on my ruddy blog, Sherlock—”  
   
“Statistically speaking, there’s a high probability of divorce among middle-aged couples—”  
   
“Really? Because there’s also a high probability of me throttling you at the moment—”  
   
“—Anyway, if I recall correctly, which I always do, you mention the wedding in exactly five separate entries, so—”  
   
“Alright!” John takes a long breath through his nose and continues, calmer, “Alright, maybe it would sound strange to claim me and Mary split up so soon after the wedding. I don’t know…” He pauses. “Okay, suppose we say I was never really with her at all," he offers tentatively. "Suppose—we say when you went, I knew where you were going, that you weren't dead. But I had to pretend to be with her, so that Moriarty's men wouldn't guess that you were alive and that--" His voice is getting away from him. He clears his throat. "That I was just waiting for you."  
   
Sherlock looks up sharply. It seems like he wants to say several different things, but what comes out is, "And when I came back, we--got together? But you wrote about her on the blog after my return."  
   
"As a front."  
   
"To cover up our connection." Sherlock's expression is blank.  
   
"No— no. Not like that, not like I wouldn't want people to know. God, no. We did it to protect you. If no one knew we were together, no one could hurt you through me. They couldn't use me as leverage, as a pressure point."  
   
"That's wrong," Sherlock says and it sounds like his voice is getting away from him a little too. "Even if no one knew we were--something more, everyone can see what you are to me. That's why you always end up wrapped in Semtex, or in a sniper's sights, or buried in the middle of a bonfire. No, if we're going to say we were hiding it, it can't have been for my sake. It was for you. We kept up the ruse with Mary so you'd stop getting targeted because of me."  
   
John takes a deep breath. _Everyone can see what you are to me._ "But now we're done covering it up. We're tired of hiding."  
   
Sherlock's eyes search John's. Then they flicker down and away. "That's our story for the night, yes." Suddenly he looks deeply tired.   
   
John studies him for a moment, unsure. Then he offers, “So, I take it our story will be much more detailed than the one you created with Lestrade?”  
   
Sherlock lights up again. “Of course.” He pulls a small black notebook out of his Belstaff and scribbles a few notes. After a moment, he looks up a bit hesitantly. “I've written down some of the basics, since we're short on time.” After a moment he adds, "Is that okay?"  
   
“Yeah. Show me.”  
   
Sherlock hands it over. He watches as John reads.  
   
John takes a breath. "We've been together since...Irene?"  
   
“Yes.” Then, speaking quickly, “It was elementary, really. Most of the material could be deduced from that insufferable blog of yours.” John gives him a look and Sherlock smiles slightly. “It might be fortuitous now that you didn’t delete the more sentimental bits. They’ll add a measure of credibility to our ruse.”  
   
This reminds John of something Sherlock once told him. He finds himself quoting it out loud. "To sell a big lie, wrap it up in the truth to make it more palatable.”  
   
“Indeed.”  
   
John turns a page, continuing to read. He frowns as he finishes. “Mmm, no. This won’t do.”  
   
“What? What is it?”  
   
“So according to this, you realized you liked me after we confronted Moriarty at the swimming pool, but didn't tell me you were interested until you overheard me talking with our ‘mutual friend’ and realized I--wanted you, too. From then on we've been a couple. End of tale. That's fine. That's all well and good, but there’s no mention in this whole bloody story of me actually telling you myself how I feel. Not even after you came back from the sodding dead. Sherlock, that’s just ridiculous.”  
   
“But the story suggests that we have been dating for over four years. That should be more than enough to convince people that we’re in a genuine relationship. You needn't have made a--a confession to me.” John can tell he’s trying to be dismissive but it ends up sounding more defensive.  
   
“No,” John repeats, a bit more forcibly this time.  
   
“No, what?”   
   
“No, as in, ‘No, we definitely have to change this.’ No, as in, 'There's no way I wouldn't have said'--Sherlock, do you honestly think that after all of that I wouldn’t have ever bothered to mention that I _loved_ you?”  
  
He stops dead. He'd lost control of his tone somewhere. That hadn't sounded hypothetical.  
   
Sherlock blinks a few times and suddenly it’s like he’s gone, like he's looking straight through John.  
   
“Sherlock," John says in a slightly strangled voice. "Sherlock? You’re doing that scary staring thing again.”  
   
Another blink and Sherlock wakes from his trance. He draws a sharp breath and turns on his heel to pace the room, steepled fingers on his lips.  
   
“When would you have told me? If it was real.”  He sounds detached, as though he is making a calculation for one of his experiments, rather than creating an epic imaginary romance with his best friend. His married best friend. Who's just said he _loved_ him, with a not-at-all-fictional emphasis. _God._  
   
The question gives John something to focus on, though. No point in pretending now. His answer is immediate and sure. “That night we spent at Bart’s. When the police were after us.” Sherlock stops pacing and turns around. John elaborates, “The night before you confronted Moriarty. The night before you—“  
   
“—jumped.”  
   
 “—died.”  
   
They stare at each other.  
   
 John clears his throat. “Sherlock. If I'd known you were about to leave me, to chase after those bastards all on your own, for God's sake, I'd have told you. I couldn't have helped it."  
   
Sherlock's eyes slide closed. His lips tighten, and John braces for a lecture on _human error,_ a repeat of _married to my work._ But the silence holds. Then shining eyes shimmering with tears open and look straight into John's, defenseless. “I understand. Without the restriction of secrecy, I imagine the circumstances would have evoked from me a similar confession.”  
   
There's quiet while John's sense of everything spins madly upside down and slowly, dizzily, rights itself. When he can think again, everything in the room looks somehow clearer. And Sherlock, standing still with his eyes fixed on John, is the most impossibly real thing he's ever seen.  
   
"Sherlock," he says helplessly.  
   
They both jump at the knock on the door.


	2. Wait, He's Marrying A Bloke?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One Mayfair, the wedding venue, is a real place; Jen meticulously mapped it out in order to recreate it here. If you want to get a feel for it, the website's got some great photography (http://one-events.co.uk/mayfair/)

Sherlock takes three long strides and pulls the outside door open, revealing Molly Hooper on the mat, looking unsure.

“I hope I’m not late?”  
   
“No, no. You’re right on time, Molly. Thank you for coming.” Sherlock offers her a quiet smile as she steps into the kitchen. John, still reeling, feels a sudden pride. He'd caught glimpses of the warmth Sherlock is capable of from the start, but every new view of it surprises him again.  
   
Molly has turned to beam at him. “Hello, John. How are you?”  
   
“Um, fine, yeah. It’s been a while. How are you getting on over at Bart’s?”  
   
“Oh, you know. The usual…nothing terribly exciting. Not like what you two have going on.”  
   
“Ah, well." He almost sounds normal, just a little breathless. "Nothing like a serial killer to add excitement to a wedding. It did improve mine."  
   
Molly laughs, startled. “Um. So, for this wedding, you're going to be his...Sorry, he said you're going as his date?”  
   
John looks a silent question at Sherlock. He gives a curt nod and John answers, “For tonight, yeah. Mary knows. It's a way to get me in without attracting our target's suspicions.”  
   
“Oh. I--oh. But you won’t be in disguise, right? I mean, you’re both going as…well, you. That is, as just yourselves?”  
   
“Easier that way, yeah.”  
   
“Easier…ah. To not make something up. That will work." Sherlock raises his eyebrows. "I mean, everyone can see how you are...and you can use your own memories for your story, so...well." She stops with a nervous giggle, and John feels himself go hot. He’s probably blushing.  
   
Sherlock speaks up suddenly. “Right--I believe John and I still have a few details to go over about the case. And time really is of the essence. Thank you, Molly.” He gently steers Molly toward the hall.  
   
“Oh--oh. Yes. Best I go and check on Rosie. It was nice seeing you again, John.”  
   
“You too, Molly. And, ah, thanks for doing all this on such short notice.”  
   
“It’s nothing, really. Happy to help.”  
   
As she leaves the room, Sherlock shoots John a careful sideways glance. Almost definitely blushing, then, and Sherlock is fascinated and trying not to show it. He has the uncomfortable feeling Sherlock is cataloging the visual somewhere deep in his mind palace. Then Sherlock sighs and suddenly launches full speed into the details of the case.  
  
“So we’ve already established that the Ambassador’s wedding reception will undoubtedly be the next place the serial killer will strike. What we have not covered yet are his past victims. All are members of the political class. The deaths seem on the surface to be completely unrelated. They range from a staged suicide and a mugging gone wrong, to a fatal gunshot wound and an accidental drowning. The killer’s targets are linked by one specific biographical detail, though. They all participated in an international development committee which convened over a year ago. Their task was to decide whether or not aid should be given to the southern region of Somalia, bordering Kenya, which had been experiencing a drought, resulting in a devastating famine.”  
   
John frowns. "I remember reading about that. They didn't send anything."  
   
Sherlock nods. "Right. The committee voted against providing medical funding and supplies to the area. This decision was heavily influenced by an Italian representative for the UN who believed that sending aid to the affected area would help not only the vulnerable population, but also the insurgents entrenched there, radicals attempting to impose Shariah rule, enabling them to continue resisting negotiation. He was the first to go missing. The Met found him floating in the Thames. Their initial conclusion on the cause of death was accidental drowning."  
   
"But it was murder."  
   
"Yes. Other members of the committee soon fell victim to the same unknown assailant. Each death has occurred within a few months of the next." He gives John a meaningful look.  
   
John takes in a quick breath. "You mean the last one was months ago and we're due for another. And we still don't know who's doing it, but his next target will be at the wedding tonight."  
   
"Three probable targets will be in attendance. David Benson, the director of a private charity working in Somaliland; the Ambassador himself; and Marianne Mathisen, Director-General for the European Commission’s humanitarian aid operations. They have been briefed on the situation. It was suggested that the suspicious deaths can most likely be attributed to a secret radical who sympathizes with the insurgents, possibly a naturalized citizen or a foreign national here on a work visa. This is the hypothesis Mycroft has been working on. He's very concerned about the safety of the Ambassador, in particular."  
   
"Wait, the Ambassador--as in the one getting married?"  
   
"Yes, the retiring British Ambassador to Somalia. Mycroft needs us to identify the killer in time to prevent another death from occurring tonight. This is a high profile event; he can't afford a tragedy. The media would proclaim it a terrorist attack and the public would panic, when in actuality, the serial killer is targeting a very exclusive group of people. Are you getting all this, John?"  
   
“Yes, I think I got it. The Ambassador, what's his name?"  
   
“William Vincent Harden.”  
   
“And his wife-to-be?”  
   
“His fiancé’s name is Cyril Morton.”  
   
John runs that statement over in his mind. “Wait, he’s marrying a bloke?”  
   
“Problem?”  
   
“No, I just assumed...No, of course not. I know—stupid of me. Sorry.”  
   
"I wouldn't say stupid."  
   
"You wouldn't? That's new."  
   
“Yes, well, I assumed Harry was male on the basis of her nickname and relationship to Clara when I saw her phone. So insulting you for making the same common assumption about the gender of the Ambassador's partner on the balance of probability would be unreasonable. By extension, I'd be stupid, too.”  
   
“And you're never stupid." John's tone is wry.  
   
“No. Neither are you.”  
   
John snorts in disbelief. “You're kidding."  
   
“Of course not. You aren't." He sounds oddly earnest. "You are actually pretty damn smart.”  
   
John laughs and looks away. “Yeah, I like to think so. Glad to see you’re catching on.”  
   
“I will admit to being slow at times. At least, in certain matters.”  
   
 “Sure, like how you insisted knowing anything about stars was utterly useless, right before you needed to recognize a supernova to identify a fake Vermeer,” John teases.  
   
Sherlock’s voice is softer now. “Yes, like that, too.”  
   
And there’s that lonely look again. _Jesus. He doesn’t know--he thinks he’s missed his chance. If I could just tell him—_ John tears his eyes away from Sherlock’s face and clears his throat. “Okay, well—what happens now?”  
   
“Anderson is due to arrive with your tux any moment now. I have some matters to attend to before the wedding. So you and I will meet up at the venue around 6:00.”  
   
"Where?”  
   
“One Mayfair. Formerly known as St. Mark's Church.”  
   
There’s a knock at the door.  
   
“That must be Anderson. I’ll leave you to get ready, John. See you soon.” He pulls the door open, nods to Anderson, and ducks outside without looking back.  
   
As Anderson hands him the garment bag, looking absurdly pleased to have been asked to help, John can't help saying, “This is insane. What am I getting myself into?”  
   
“You're getting yourself into a tux. One Mycroft Holmes's personal tailor modified for you. I hope you're properly grateful,” Anderson replies snarkily, and John tries not to growl. “Please tell me you plan to do something about your hair. You’re going to a wedding in Mayfair as Sherlock Holmes’ date. You should probably go for something a little less…suburban dad. I suppose I could help, if you’d like?”  
   
John tries very hard not to laugh. “Thanks. I think I can figure this one out on my own.” But now he's imagining himself standing next to Sherlock in a great hall filled with lights and lovely people… Sherlock bloody Holmes, perfect as ever and twice as well dressed. Who not-quite-said just now that he _loved John back._  
   
John has a date with Sherlock. Who, apparently, loves him.  
   
And everything's still unfinished with Mary. She’s still John's lying wife. Still free to claim him in eyes of everyone they know. Still (if he was lucky) unaware that everything had changed between them, long before this, with one bullet and the scent of Clair-de-Lune.  
   
John's inclined to repeat his earlier thought. _What on earth have I gotten myself into?_

 

The stone facade of One Mayfair glows in the warmth of the lanterns set along its stone steps. The cross atop the tower of the deconsecrated church shines in the last light of the setting sun, above the shadows creeping across the street and the crowds beneath. John steps out of one of Mycroft's sleek black cars (a Jaguar XJ L, this time), searching for Sherlock among the groups moving slowly toward the double doors--all the beautiful, bored people. More Mycroft's crowd than his or Sherlock's.   
   
But when he spots Sherlock in the stream of guests, he looks like he belongs there—dressed in expensive dark lines precisely tailored to show off his long form, standing with his head tipped back slightly at a delicately lazy angle, and—Sherlock turns to glance around and John frowns, picking up his stride, as he gets a good look at Sherlock's miserable face. He's being talked at by a small, precise man whom John is sure he’s seen in the papers once or twice. Some politician. John struggles to pick out the thread of their conversation from the general murmur of the crowd as he weaves his way toward them, listening for anything in the stranger's tone that sounds lascivious or rude or threatening. He finally comes within earshot only to realize, as he takes in the man's earnest murmur, that he's subjecting Sherlock to a political monologue, something about petty internal parliamentary negotiations so dry even Mycroft couldn't find an interest in it. He smiles to himself. Sherlock's not in any difficulty, just bored to tears.  
   
_Well, we’ll just have to fix that._  
   
John comes up quietly next to Sherlock. Places one firm hand on his shoulder, feeling an immediate quiver of deductive interest run through him. He knows what Sherlock's analyzing, the protective energy he feels in John's grip. He wants Sherlock to feel it. He's tired of Sherlock looking slightly alone, apart. He offers his other hand to the squat man beside him. “Hello, John Watson, nice to meet you.”  
   
“And you. I'm James Abbott. MP. I don’t think we’ve met. Mr. Holmes' personal assistant, is it?” He turns to Sherlock and asks, “He's the one who runs that blog you mentioned, then?”  
   
John answers for him, “Yes, I do. I’m also his partner.” He slips his arm possessively around Sherlock's waist, to make his meaning clear. He risks a quick glance and sees confused pleasure in Sherlock's face. Didn’t expect John to be so bold about it, then.  
   
“Oh. I beg your pardon. Holmes failed to mention…” Abbott trails off, uncomfortable.  
   
John replies easily, “We like to keep our relationship as private as possible. You know how the press can get when personal details are made public.”  
   
“Right, of course.” The man looks to Sherlock for any indication of how to proceed. But Sherlock's eyes are distant, his face a blank.  
   
John smiles apologetically at Abbott, then looks up at Sherlock. “I think it’s time we head in, don’t you?” Sherlock blinks back to reality and nods slowly. John tells the little politician, “Pleasure meeting you. Please, excuse us.”  
   
He steers Sherlock away, settling his hand on the small of his back.  When they reach the queue heading into the building, he leans in, his voice low so only Sherlock can hear.  
   
“Are you alright? Lost you there for a second.”  
   
Sherlock’s uncanny eyes flit over John from head to foot. He’s taking him in, cataloguing every detail. John waits patiently while Sherlock finishes.  
   
“You’ve changed your hair,” is the first thing out of Sherlock’s mouth.  
   
“My…hair?” John almost laughs, startled.  
   
“It’s pushed back. You styled it using Mary’s hair products.”  
   
“Well, yeah. Anderson told me that I needed to make an effort. Is it rubbish, then? I knew I should’ve just—" He goes to run a hand through it, hoping he still has time to make it lie flat, and finds his wrist caught in Sherlock's grasp.  
   
“No, don’t! It's--good.”  
   
“Really?” John drops his hand, but Sherlock’s hold lingers.  
   
“Quite good. It, ah, suits you.” Suddenly John understands why Sherlock found his blush so fascinating. He licks his lips, self-conscious, and smiles involuntarily as Sherlock gets pinker and quickly releases John’s wrist.  
   
“Alright, then. That’s…great.” After a beat John feels compelled to add, “You look good, too. Not that you need me to tell you, since you always look, you know, like that."  
   
Sherlock's face is crumpling in confusion when, to John’s relief, they're interrupted by the doorman.  
   
“Good evening, gentlemen. May I have your names, please?”  
   
John watches Sherlock hesitate, still looking at him, and wonders suddenly if Sherlock knows he's beautiful. If anyone's ever told him. The thought makes him sad and a bit reckless. "I'm trying to say you look wonderful," he says quietly, and as Sherlock turns away to address the doorman, John sees a flash of startled happiness.  
   
“Sherlock Holmes, and my partner, Dr. John Watson.”  
   
The doorman checks his list and nods. "Welcome, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. The ceremony will be held in the Grand Hall.”  
   
The hall of the old cathedral is half-full already, guests making their way among the rows of chairs, hung with garlands of pale flowers. The light of the chandeliers glows along the arches of ancient stone above them, and at the front of the room an intricately carved and sculpted wall rises to the vaulted ceiling, where it's lost in shadow. A string quartet plays slow, lovely harmonies in the balcony overhead, suffusing the hum of conversation with a sense of calm. The air is full of sweet jasmine. John glances up to see how Sherlock is taking all this and finds him smirking. "What?"  
   
"The social dance, John. All the people lying prettily to each other. You see that man?"  
   
John follows his glance to an urbane, polished diplomat chatting with a sharply dressed young woman. "He's very well off, newly single, his choice. Tired of his partner. He thinks that girl is going home with him tonight. She's got professional aspirations, believes he's a man with connections. He is, but he won't share. Neither of them is going to get what they want, because neither is capable of being straightforward with the other."  
   
John listens, fascinated, as Sherlock analyzes the quirks and follies of the people settling into their seats around them. Sherlock's clearly searching for any clue to the identity of the man planning someone's death tonight, but he's also entertaining John while he looks. He doesn't stop talking quietly until the music falls off suddenly. There's an expectant rustle in the crowd. Sherlock turns with the rest, intent, to watch the door where the wedding party will enter.  
   
A single violin from the quartet begins to play again, something joyous, strong and martial John recognizes from Sherlock's late-night musical wanderings on the Stradivarius, and the groomsmen and bridesmaids walk double file down the aisle, followed by the grooms, arm in arm. John's transfixed by the look on their faces. Neither one is young, neither especially beautiful, but they're shining with happiness. They take their places at the front of the room. A hush settles over the hall as the officiant stands. "This is a celebration of the triumph of love," she says solemnly, and John glances at Sherlock, half-expecting a sneer, but his face is still, his eyes on the men facing one another with clasped hands and such certainty.  
   
When the vows begin John feels an ache in his chest. "To love and to cherish until death do us part," rings in his mind and he remembers Mary's light voice saying the words, her cool gray eyes looking steadily into his. Death _had_ parted them; Sherlock's death. His best friend had flatlined, his wife’s bullet in his chest. Sherlock had pulled through, but there had been no coming back from that for John. He had no desire to. He wishes Sherlock knew that. But his wife is the assassin, and his friend the target, and it is his turn to keep silent and keep someone safe at his own expense. _But not for much longer. Please,_ he pleads silently. When his mind clears, the Ambassador is sliding a slender gold band onto his partner's finger. "I now pronounce you husbands," the officiant intones, and they break into broad smiles. She smiles, too, benevolent. "You may kiss the groom."  
   
The kiss is slow and sweet and John has to look away. As the guests applaud, he spares a glance at Sherlock. He is sitting very straight and still, his chin lifted slightly. John watches as he takes a long, careful breath. To most people, his face would be unreadable. But when it comes to Sherlock Holmes, John is able to glean so much from so little, and, slowly, he slides his hand into Sherlock's. After a moment, he feels Sherlock's fingers tighten around his as his eyes follow the men walking hand in hand down the aisle, laughing.  
   
Once the wedding party has left the room, a low hum of talk rises and the guests begin to stir in their seats, preparing to seek the champagne and hor d'oeuvres being served on the mezzanine above. John takes a deep breath.

The game is still on. _  
_


	3. The Rumors Are True

“So. Sherlock." John turns in his seat to face him. "What’s our plan for the reception?”  
   
Sherlock's already standing, turning to make his way through the crowd. John follows, trying to hear him through the crosscurrents of conversation. “Ideally, our first move would be to talk to Harden, but he has already been interviewed by Mycroft, so I've been forbidden to interrogate the Ambassador any further.” He pauses as they concentrate on navigating through the slowly-moving crowd in the stairwell.  
   
When they reach the mezzanine, Sherlock continues, “Logically, our next line of inquiry would fall with David and Marianne. Both are present tonight and also under threat."  
   
“Alright, and where are they?”  
   
Sherlock scans the balconies until he finally locks in on their first target. “The man leaning on the railing, with the glasses, wearing the ridiculous tie? That's David Benson.” John gives the man a good look. Sherlock is studying the crowd again. “And there’s Marianne. That woman standing by the window on the far right, talking to the French diplomat and his wife.”  
   
John follows Sherlock’s gaze over to the back corner of the mezzanine. He spots a lovely middle-aged woman in an emerald silk gown, her long blonde hair in an intricate updo, pinned with a diamond encrusted clip. She holds herself with effortless poise. John thinks of the corresponding elegance of the man beside him and stands a little straighter. “How do we approach them? It’s not like we can just stroll up and start interrogating them. For all we know, the murderer could already have an eye on his target. We can’t arouse his suspicions.”

They've been pressed nearer to each other as the swarms of guests move around them. When John turns back his nose nearly brushes Sherlock's chin, and Sherlock's eyes have gone wide and strangely sad. He pulls in a quick breath; his gaze slides down to John’s mouth. It's as strong a sensation as if he'd laid a warm, sudden finger on John's lips.  
   
John licks his lips; clears his throat. Sherlock's not moved. “Well?”  
   
Sherlock blinks, and his face goes blank, and John can breathe again. He snaps, “I’m thinking, John. I just need a moment to devise a plan," and his voice is rough, as though he had momentarily forgotten how to use it.  
   
John sighs. “Right, well, you have a think, then. I’m off to find some champagne.” He turns to track down a server; spots one offering sparkling flutes to the guests, and makes his way over. He debates for a moment on whether to get one or two glasses and decides just this once that it’s worth bending Sherlock’s rule about no drinking during a case. They’re at a wedding, an extraordinarily posh wedding, and this may be the nicest champagne they'll ever have together. Besides, judging from Sherlock’s current mood, he could definitely do with a drink. He takes the two glasses off the server’s silver platter and weaves his way back to Sherlock, who looks a little lost, standing there on his own. When their eyes meet, John can see the apology starting to form on his face, and shakes his head.

“You don’t have to apologize. Just take the drink, you git.” Sherlock huffs and smiles a bit at the insult, and his long fingers pluck the offered drink out of John’s hand. "Cheers," John offers. They clink glasses and are about to take a sip when a man behind Sherlock makes a wide gesture that catches Sherlock in the back, jolting him forward and causing his champagne glass to slip from his grasp.  
   
John reaches out on instinct and barely snags it before it falls and shatters. He looks at the flute in his fist with a vague sense of déjà vu ( _...pray charge your glasses and be upstanding..._ ). Sherlock’s mouth's opened in surprise.  
   
A voice to the right of them speaks up. “Excellent reflexes. That could have made quite a mess.”  
   
Both men turn to see who has spoken and are met with the sight of Marianne Mathisen. She's even more stunning up close. She turns to Sherlock.  
   
“You must be other Holmes brother. Marianne Mathisen. So nice to finally meet you. I thought you would be taller, judging from your appearance in the papers.”  
   
Sherlock stands a little straighter at this, as though to make up for his lack of height. He shakes her hand. “I take the precaution of a good coat and a short—”  
   
“—boyfriend. Hello. John Watson. Pleasure.” He butts in before Sherlock can finish the quip, passing Sherlock’s champagne back to him, and offering his hand to Marianne. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the detective’s mouth quirk in amusement.  
   
She gives John a firm hand-shake and replies, “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Watson.”  
   
“Doctor,” Sherlock corrects her. John tries not to grin.  
   
“Ah, Doctor Watson. My apologies.”  
   
“It’s quite alright.”  
   
“What area of medicine you practice, Doctor? If you do not mind me asking.”  
   
“I don’t mind. I’m currently a GP here in London.”  
   
“Oh, is that so?” Marianne is clearly politely underwhelmed. Sherlock cuts in again.  
   
 “John, you are being far too humble. He was also an army doctor—”  
   
John lays a hand on his elbow. “Many years ago, love.” He feels Sherlock freeze at the endearment, and rubs his arm gently. “I’m sure Ms. Mathisen isn’t interested in hearing my old stories—”  
   
“No, I am actually rather curious to hear more. I had a brother who worked for Doctors Without Borders. He too had a penchant for being on the front lines. Where did you serve, Doctor Watson? Were you a GP in the army as well?”  
   
“Not quite. I did a tour in Afghanistan as a surgical trainee; never did become a consultant surgeon, though. Got, ah, invalided out of the army towards the tail end of my training.” This all comes out a little easier than he'd have expected. John has never been one to talk freely about his army days, but something about this woman makes him feel comfortable enough to elaborate. She must understand better than most, having a brother who was in a similar line of work.  
   
Marianne gives him sympathetic look. “No good deed goes unpunished, it seems. My own brother Henrik never made it home. He was killed during his fourth field assignment. He was a surgeon, like you, Doctor. I can only imagine how difficult it all must have been for you.”  
   
John squares himself against the twinge that shoots through his shoulder. “Yeah, not a good year for me—or it wasn’t, until I met Sherlock. I’m lucky to have found him when I did. I don’t think I’d be alive today without him.” He reaches for Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock takes it and holds it rather tightly.  
   
Marianne smiles. “Quite fortunate for us all that your paths crossed. No doubt, England would be in deeper trouble than it already is, if it was not for that detective business you both run.”  
   
“Well he’s the consulting detective. I’m just his—” Out of the corner of his eye, John spots David Benson, laughing heartily across the room. He needs to be interviewed. With the murderer poised to strike, they have little time to spare. “—blogger. Ah… Sherlock, I’m feeling a bit peckish. Can't have too much champagne on an empty stomach. Would you mind getting me a few of those appetizers?”  
   
“Dinner is going to be served ten minutes from now, why would you need to—” Sherlock follows John’s glance and catches on. “Oh. On second thought, it _would_ be a shame not to try such lovely hor d'oevres. Must take advantage of the spread. You two keep talking; I’ll be just a minute.”  
   
“Ta, sweetheart.” John says to the retreating back of Sherlock as he slips off in the direction of David Benson. John turns to address Marianne once again. “Sorry about that. What were we saying?”  
   
“I believe we were speaking about your…consulting detective. Tell me, Doctor, is he aware of the strange rash of deaths recently befalling our political circles?”  
   
“Yes, we’re aware. Why? Did you know anyone--affected?”  
   
“I did." She takes a deep breath and continues firmly, "In fact, I served on an action committee with all of the deceased. I am very much afraid we are being targeted. Specifically. It is not an idle fancy. Your detective's brother—I am sure you are aware of his influence—he shares that concern. I am aware he is doing his best, and I am sure he will bring an end this--this vendetta, very soon; I try not to dwell on it. But given current circumstances—It is not much but—” She's grown visibly tense. “—for the last few days, I…well, I have felt like I am being watched. The few close friends I have confided in tell me I am simply being paranoid, but certainly you have seen the papers, Doctor. Those deaths, they are not at all random. Now, I am no consulting detective, but even I can see that there is a pattern here. I am convinced this is the work of a serial killer. More than that, it has been two months since the last death…exactly two months, Dr. Watson, and there are only so many of us left from the original group. Needless to say, I have been on high alert in recent weeks. We all have: myself, Ambassador Harden, Mr. Benson. Of course, the killer could come after any one of us. We have been told that he is likely to be a radical sympathizer of some sort, here on some fabricated visa, no doubt. But the reality is that tells us nothing substantial. I--to be honest, I do not feel safe here. I have been looking over my shoulder from the moment I stepped inside—But you are accustomed to danger and death. I must seem extraordinarily timid to you.”  
   
“No, I quite agree. That sounds more than a bit disconcerting,” John offers.  
   
She smiles gratefully. “It is rather fortunate that I ran into you when I did. Perhaps, throughout the night, you can keep a look-out for any suspicious looking gentlemen. I'd be grateful for the extra pair of eyes.”  
   
“Of course, Ms. Mathisen. I’m sure Sherlock would be happy to help in any way he can.”  
   
“Thank you, Dr. Watson.” She looks over John’s shoulder and notices the guests are moving back down the stairs to the main hall. “Ah, looks as though the dinner reception is about to start. We should make our way down. But, oh, where is your partner? He never returned.”  
   
“Ah yes, well, he’s apt to do that—disappear. He gets sidetracked. I’ll just be off, then. Track him down, hopefully before the reception starts up.” He scans the general vicinity. No sign of Sherlock.  
   
“Sounds like a good plan.” She winks and holds out her hand again. “So lovely meeting you, Doctor.” They shake hands and with a nod she gracefully moves away.  
   
Across the room, David Benson is just re-entering the mezzanine from a side door. Sherlock must be somewhere through there. John makes his way through the stream of people, pushes open the door Benson came through, and finds it opens onto a set of stairs going up--and, unexpectedly, the deep, starry sky above. He's come out onto the roof. A soft night wind pours into the stairwell to meet him as he climbs, lifting away the heat of the crowd inside. The moon glows over the couples and groups talking quietly in the open air amid the dancing shadows of the terrace, the fairy lights hung along the railings swaying slightly in the breeze.  
   
John looks around, half-expecting to find Sherlock on his hands and knees checking the grain of the wood floor for evidence. Or just for fun--John wouldn’t put it past him. But he's standing at the other end of the terrace, gazing out into the night, hands crossed behind him, his posture impeccable. John stills, watching him. His best friend…His unreasonably beautiful friend, looking otherworldly in the soft shine of the city below.

 _Hey. Focus. You’re still on the case. Got to keep your wits about you._ He quietly crosses the remaining distance. He knows Sherlock's heard his steps approach, but for a long moment neither one speaks. They let the hum of the traffic below fill the silence.  
   
He puts a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “You all right?"  
   
“John.” There’s a pause, full of emotion John can’t decipher. “You told Marianne that you don’t think you’d be alive today if it wasn’t for me.” His brow furrows as he tries to form the right words. “Was that just--talk? Or did you mean it?”  
   
He puts soft but firm emphasis into his answer. “It wasn’t part of the act. I was losing my grip, before you came along. Didn't have much to hold on for.”  
   
“Oh.” Sherlock's voice is faint. He turns to stare at John.  
   
John lets out a short laugh, shifts. “Sherlock, you changed my life, completely turned it around. Surely you know this by now.”  
   
Sherlock's eyes are sober. "You said, before the wedding--you said Mary changed your life, too. Do you mean she saved it? After I left you, were you--like that, again?"  
   
"Suicidal?" He takes a long, slow breath, lets himself remember that darkness. His voice is half a whisper when he answers. "I--yes. It was hard, watching you--die. I wanted to follow you. I'm sorry." He takes in Sherlock's horrified look, speaks more firmly. "People looked after me. Greg checked in. Mrs. Hudson, even if I never did answer her calls. And then, well, then Mary. But Sherlock, she was something to live for, for a little while, but not the way you are. You're more."  
   
The look Sherlock gives him then lays him bare. It's the same expression John saw on the tarmac, the same naked grief and tenderness. And for the same reasons as then, John puts all his understanding into his answering look, but doesn't say the obvious. Only, “Sherlock, the case. Someone's about to die here. This—we can’t—not now. It's too much to deal with too quickly.”  
   
Sherlock swallows hard. When he finally speaks, his voice is low and strained. “’Not now’ implies that at some time in the future we will talk about it.”  
   
John deliberately lightens his tone. “Huh. It does, doesn’t it?” With a gentle hand, he reaches out to straighten Sherlock’s bow-tie. “So long as there’s no killer to stop, or lives that need saving, I don’t see why not,” he finishes lightly, holding Sherlock’s gaze. And if he's quietly including Mary in his tally of interfering killers, he's going to bloody well make sure she's out of their way in short order, too. "Let's go stop a murder, Sherlock."  
   
Sherlock gathers himself and nods. “Dinner?”  
   
John smiles fondly. “Starving.”  
   
  
   
The hall is filled with the general bustle of guests finding their seats. John uses the fuss as cover to ask, “So, get any good information off of Benson?” He keeps his voice low, walking a step behind Sherlock, with a hand at his back.  
  
They reach their assigned table and Sherlock pulls out John's chair; pushes it in once he's seated. “Nothing of value. The man’s an idiot. He glibly claimed that Mycroft had it all well in hand, mocked Marianne’s concern—apparently she told him tonight that she think she’s being watched—then spent the remainder of our interview brandishing his cigar in my face, telling me stories about his political exploits.” He waves his hand in irritation. “I tuned out most of it after I realized he was useless. What did Marianne tell you? What has she observed?”  
   
John explains Marianne's fears, leaving out some of the more personal details for the sake of time. Just as he's reaching the end, she settles gracefully into the seat next to Sherlock.  
   
“Ah, Doctor Watson! I see you've found your detective.” She turns to Sherlock. “Did you happen to find any clues while you were flitting about, Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson said that you might be able to help catch this serial killer before he strikes again.”  
   
John sneaks a look at Sherlock. Not many people would dare claim in his hearing that he _flits,_ but it's oddly accurate. Sherlock widens his eyes at John ever so slightly, and the corner of his mouth lifts. John pinches his lips together against the urge to laugh.  
   
“Of course,” Sherlock says solemnly, “I will do whatever I can to help.”  
   
“Good, good.”  
   
“I'm sorry, Ms. Mathisen. I never did get to ask you what it is you do for work. Mycroft only told us that you are the Director General of ECHO.”  
   
“Yes, I was made Director a few years ago. It has been quite an undertaking. So many crises happening all over the world. Some natural disasters, some man-made ones. I spend the majority of my time traveling. There is so much work to be done. In the last six months alone I have spent extensive time at our field offices in Athens, Baghdad, and Ankara. Needless to say, it does not leave me much free time. I have had to abandon all hobbies. I used to be an avid gardener and painter. But no matter, I love what I do—organizing services to aid millions around the world. My work comes with much responsibility, but it is, at the end of the day, so very fulfilling. I imagine both of you can understand such a life: sacrificing much for the sake of those in dire need. Solving crimes and global humanitarian aid are not all that different. Your services just happen to be more localized.”  
   
“More localized, yes. And unfortunately more widely publicized. Certainly more attention should be drawn to your charity efforts, Ms. Mathisen,” Sherlock responds.  
   
“Nonsense, my dear. People who take on positions like mine are not looking for attention, only successful implementation of aid and intervention.” She leans forward a bit. “Now then, Mr. Holmes, you were saying how your consulting business has brought you some unwelcome attention in the press. I remember you were the story of the year after your, ah, untimely departure. Which begs the question, how did you stage your own death? It must have been a very clever plan because here you are, alive and well.”  
   
Sherlock takes a sharp breath. "The consequences of that plan have been the most painful that I—that we have ever been forced to endure." He gives John a quick, distressed glance. "I very much regret--I could not--I do not wish to claim it as an example of my intelligence.”  
   
John interjects, placing a hand on Sherlock’s knee. “It's not something we care to dwell on. He did what he felt he had to. But from now on, we won't allow ourselves to be separated again."  
   
Sherlock's hand settles atop John’s. “Yes, exactly. Thank you, John.”  
   
Suddenly a high, excited voice breaks in.  
   
“Um, sorry to intrude, my friends and I have been dying to ask you—are you really Sherlock Holmes? The Sherlock Holmes?” The speaker looks quite young; soft red-gold hair hangs loose around her shoulders, and there's sprinkle of freckles across her eager face.  
  
A few other women are gathered in a whispering group behind her.  
   
“I am.”  
   
“Oh, wow! It's, um, an honor to meet you.”  
   
He nods. "This is my--John," Sherlock says abruptly. He's trying to let her know he's taken, John realizes, and feels a proud, proprietary smile spreading across his face.  
   
She doesn't seem to mind.  She turns her enthusiasm on him. "John Watson? My name is Florence, but my friends call me Floss. I’m a huge fan of yours! Oh—” Her eyes widen with realization. “Oh, my God, are you on one of your cases? I’m so sorry I interrupted!”  
   
Surprisingly, Sherlock’s face has softened.  
   
“It’s fine. We're simply here to attend the celebration tonight.”  
   
“Oh—that's wonderful. I just—I just love reading about your cases—We all do. Though there haven’t been any new ones in a quite a while. Please tell us there’ll be more."  
   
John laughs. "Of course, yeah." He turns his hand over where it rests under Sherlock's, squeezes his hand. "Plenty more adventures to write about.”  
   
“Ah, brilliant! Because the last entry on your blog was just a bunch of wedding stuff—not—not saying that’s a bad thing, it’s just—Is your wife here too, Dr. Watson? I’m sure she’s lovely.”  
   
John finds himself a bit thrown by the question. Over the last few hours Mary has begun to seem more remote, like the imaginary creation she is, and Sherlock his reality. “Mmm, no, there’s not—she isn’t—I’m with Sherlock now—that is, I’ve been with Sherlock for quite a while. Well, the whole time, actually."  
   
Sherlock steps in. “John’s marriage was just a story we created so that our relationship wouldn’t be exploited by criminals.”  
   
Florence gasps. “So the rumors are true then? You two are together.” She turns and gives her friend a playful nudge. “See, Lena! I told you they’ve been together this whole time.”  
   
Sherlock’s eyes quickly scan the group, their wide eyes and blushes. “Ah, ye of little faith. I do believe you each owe your friend twenty quid. Congratulations, Floss.”  
   
Then black-clad servers are leaning in over their shoulders, and delicately arranged plates of salad and fruit being placed along the white length of the table. John smiles at the girls. “Nice to meet you all. Looks like our food's here. Time to tuck in, yeah?”  
   
They nod and giggle. John turns to his plate. After several mouthfuls of exceptional salmon salad, he asks under his breath, “What's our next move, Sherlock? The food is ace, but there's still a killer to catch. And we're running low on time. ”  
   
“I'm aware, John. I do have the capacity to think and eat at the same time—“ Sherlock's voice drops off unexpectedly and his eyes widen with a realization. “Oh, stupid. Stupid.”  
   
John snorts. “That bad? What did I do wrong?"  
   
Sherlock turns to him with a fervent look in his eye. “Not you, John. Me. I missed it."  
   
“Missed what? What are you on about?”  
   
“Don’t you see? You said it. Food!”


	4. The Thrill Of The Chase (And Something Else)

“Oh." He stares at Sherlock. "Of course—That's a bit cliché though, isn't it? Poisoning the food?”  
   
“Perhaps. But it is a good place to start. We need to get to the caterers' station."  
   
They find it beneath the Hall in an area marked “The Crypt.” It's not really very crypt-like, John thinks; like the rest of the place, it's bloody elegant. Small chandeliers hanging from the arched, low, brick ceiling warm the space with their glow. Amidst the human maelstrom of chefs, prep workers, and waiters, Sherlock and John move unnoticed. Sherlock surveys the open workrooms off the main cavern, clearly on the hunt for anything suspicious. After a full revolution around the room in total silence, he returns to John.  
   
“Well, anything?”  
   
“Seemingly, no.” He sees John's disappointment and adds, “But it’s given me a few ideas. We need more information.”  
   
“Right. And how do we get that?”  
   
“We need to get back upstairs and make note of which waiters tend to which tables. Whoever serves our table, where Marianne and David are seated, and the head table where the wedding party sits, will be suspect.”  
   
They make their way back up the stairs to the Grand Hall. As they approach, a speech becomes half-audible, coming muffled through the walls. Sherlock eases open a side door.  Cyril Morton stands beaming at the head table, raising his glass in a toast. The room raises their glasses in return; there is scattered applause. Cyril turns a softer, smaller smile to his husband as he sits down. William Harden stands.  
   
“It is a great joy for both Cyril and I to have the people we most love here to celebrate our union tonight.”  
   
Sherlock leans in close and quietly remarks, “The silver-haired waiter coming towards us just finished clearing the head table. Keep an eye on him.”  
   
John shivers at Sherlock’s warm breath in his ear. “Sorry, what? On--on who?”  
   
("...when I first began seeing Cyril, years ago, we had to proceed with the utmost caution. In the context of diplomacy in the third world...")  
   
Sherlock frowns, eyes tracking John's reaction. Then he looks away. His answer sounds a little rushed.  "That one, there. Watch for him. I need your eye on him when he comes back."  
   
("...but now, having returned home, we've received such a welcome that we find ourselves almost unbearably grateful to you all--such friends, such family...")  
   
John pulls in a long breath and scans the room. “Ah, and that’s our table's waiters. The short ginger and the bald one.”  
   
“Yes John, obviously. Watch them, and anyone else who approaches those tables. I have to determine what could feasibly be poisoned and which of the three is the target.”  
   
John looks up at Harden, thinking, Please, not him. On his wedding day, for God's sake. Harden's still speaking earnestly. "I would like to end by expressing my deepest gratitude to my mother and father. Thirty years ago they met in Turkey; my mother, a professor; my father, a diplomat with the Embassy. Not only did they inspire my own career; they gave me the foundation for the personal happiness you are all here to witness. You would think that a coupling of a fiery Turkish woman and a mellow Scottish lad wouldn’t be harmonious, but it was the perfect partnership--a marriage not without its struggles, but so full of richness, growth, and loyalty. My parents have always pushed each other to greater heights and have faced every challenge together as one indestructible unit. This is undoubtedly why their marriage has stood the test of time. They taught me the lessons of love and devotion. I wish now to offer Cyril all I've gained from them.”  
   
John joins in the applause as the Ambassador turns to meet his groom's kiss.  
   
John’s marriage to Mary is the antithesis of everything the Ambassador's just described. So why did Harden’s words resonate with him so deeply--not as something he's wished for, but something he has had?  
   
_They taught me the lessons of love and devotion--_ and he sees with a jolt of memory Sherlock, shouting with tears in his eyes for John to get back, stay back, as Mycroft's gunmen take aim, Sherlock's unresisting hands held high as he drops to his knees in the helicopter's floodlight. Sees him, pale and quiet, pulling his violin out of its case as John stands holding Mary on the dance floor, surrounded by their friends, ready to begin the slow, tender waltz Sherlock had taught him alone in their old rooms. Hears Sherlock pleading, smiling through his confusion, _You have missed this (haven't you, John?)--the blood pumping through our veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world?_  
   
One indestructible unit.  
   
He _has_ had it before, that certainty. That joy.  
   
John startles when he's suddenly grasped and pulled back through the door by Sherlock's eager hands. He releases John in the hall and hisses in a voice brimming with satisfaction, “His mother's from Turkey, John. Turkey! It's coturnism!”  
   
John frowns in confusion. “I’m sorry, what?”  
   
“Coturnism, John. If the birds have ingested deadly hemlock seeds--a rare occurrence, but certainly possible, given the continental origins of our feast—"  
   
John snorts. “Of course. Even the poison's top-notch tonight. Ah, what birds?"  
   
“—they'll be fatal to consume. It's likely only one of the quails has been poisoned, the one destined for the victim. We'll have to identify which."  
   
“Ah, the quail. Right. Fantastic, we'll get right on that, then, but how did you—?”  
   
“There’s no time to explain it all, John. We have to intercept the servers.”  
   
"Come on, Sherlock, give us the quick version. I know you love this bit."  
   
Sherlock smirks. “Fine. Wild quail migrate south across the Mediterranean, going straight through Turkey. Many of these quail feed off hemlock seeds during the journey. Anyone who consumes the bird during this migration season will develop severe symptoms of rhabdomyolysis due to the toxic alkaloids in the hemlock seed. Accidental poisoning is of course rare nowadays due to our stringent food-safety regulations, but there are quite a few well documented accounts of it from the ancient world. If someone moderately well-up in their historic poisons and local foodstuffs decided to murder a sentimental idiot with an esoteric wedding menu designed in tribute to their Turkish parent, hemlock-seasoned quail would be the way to go."  
   
"Oh," John breathes, beginning to understand. "Brilliant."  
   
Sherlock's gaze warms, and he bends closer. "In summary, then: Harden's entree tonight? Toxic. The killer will have swotted up on the wedding plans, and saw his chance in Harden's concession to sentiment. John, take off your tux.”  
   
John's brain, which had been following the track of Sherlock's rapid-fire deductions, goes right off the rails at that sharp turn. “Wait, what?"  
   
"Tuxedo. Off." Sherlock's fingers make quick work of John's buttons. “Put this on.” Sherlock slides the jacket off his shoulders, followed by the vest, and hands him a server’s vest.  John splutters.  
   
"Sherlock, wait--What are you--Where did you get this?"  
   
“Pinched it, hanging about downstairs." Sherlock tucks John's obscenely expensive tailored wedding clothes behind a potted plant, and smiles. "You’re going to pretend to be a server and switch out Harden’s serving of quail with a second plate. Then bring his plate back down to the Crypt so I can examine it."  
   
“Oh, and that won't look suspicious at all!”  
   
“Tell Harden that you made a mistake and that plate was meant for someone with food allergies. Then give him a new plate. Simple.”  
   
“Simple. Right. And where will you be?"  
   
"Down at our table, covering for you, and watching David's and Marianne's servings."  
   
“Of course. Why couldn't I be the one doing the sitting and eating part?"  
   
"You blend in. You'll make a brilliant waiter; no one will notice you," Sherlock says complacently.  
   
"Oi!" John puts on his best glare, but Sherlock merely shrugs, eyes shining. The thrill of the chase, and something else, something deep and sweet that's hard to look at, now that he's put a name to it. Now that he's realizing just how long he's been seeing it there, unspoken.  
   
"I didn't say they shouldn't notice you, John. I said they won't. People are idiots. Look, here comes the second course." The servers are starting to carry trays of quail up from the Crypt. “Time to get into our positions, John. I’ll see you after the first course.”  
  
Sherlock dashes off before John can respond. He watches him disappear among the waiters.  
  
Pretend to be a waiter, blend in. Yeah, sure. He’ll just draw a fake mustache on his face and put on a French accent. John sighs and scans the room for the server he’s supposed to keep tabs on; finds him moving toward the head table, several plates of Turkish quail balanced expertly on a large tray that he’s carrying. In order for the plan to work, he'll have to slip in and take Harden's dish as soon as the server sets it down and turns away--before Harden can take a bite. And he'll need a plate to replace it with.  
  
He scans the room; spots a server a few meters away just setting down a trayful of plates. He walks past, nicks one without pausing in his stride, and hurries towards the head table with his head held high.  
  
“Terribly sorry, Mr. Harden. There’s been a bit of a mix-up down in the kitchens. That particular dish is meant for one of your guests who has food allergies.” He switches out the plates, watching the man's expression.  
  
Harden's quizzical look gives way to an understanding smile. “Ah, of course. Thank you." John nods and moves away calmly with the stolen plate.  
  
He’s halfway across the hall when he hears the commotion. From what John can see, Sherlock has shoved his chair back just in time to make two waiters veer off course and walk right into each other. The ginger one carrying the drinks seemed to have escaped unscathed, but the bald waiter's dropped both plates of quail--presumably the ones meant for David and Marianne.  
  
John bites back an amused smile as he watches Sherlock get down on his hands and knees to “help” the server clean up the mess. Only Sherlock could pull this off. He’s dissecting the quail, right there on the floor, searching for traces of poisonous hemlock seeds in the gizzard as he gathers the scattered pieces of food. No one but John would notice. The commotion over, people are turning back to their dinners. Chatter and the clinking of silverware pick up again, and the hall fills once more with the cheerful hum of activity.  
  
John deposits his suspicious plate of quail behind the potted plant where his tuxedo jacket and vest are hidden. As discretely as possible, he changes back into his original clothes and returns to their assigned table. When he takes a seat, he asks quietly, "Did you find anything?”  
  
“Not a thing. By process of elimination that must mean that the quail you retrieved is the one containing the poison.” Sherlock looks at him expectantly.  
  
“No,Sherlock, I didn’t check it. I've no idea what to look for. You’re the expert.”  
  
Sherlock sighs. “Alright. I will be right back.” He gets up from his seat and speaks a bit louder. “Just going to the lav. Be back in a moment, John.”  
  
Only two minutes have passed when Sherlock returns. He sits down and leans over. “The quail had consumed hemlock seed, just as I had suspected. This confirms that the killer planned to poison the Ambassador.”  
  
“Ah, so now all we need to do is wait until our man realizes his plan has been foiled.”  
  
“He'll react and—”  
  
“—blow his cover.”  
  
“Precisely.”  
  
“Got it.”  
  
But five minutes pass, then ten, while John tucks into the gloriously juicy quail and Sherlock shoves his food around his plate moodily.  
  
“Sherlock, nothing's happening. Are you sure—?”  
  
“Yes, John. When am I not sure?”  
  
“Alright, but what if the bloke left without us noticing?”  
  
“Mycroft is currently surveilling the entire premises. That includes all the exits. He would have notified me of any unexpected early departures.”  
  
“Then could it be the wait staff? They’re all down in the Crypt. No way for us to keep tabs on them, yeah?”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes, which have been rapidly darting from table to table, focus at John’s suggestion. A moment of realization and then, “Of course. Yes. We must hurry.”  
  
Sherlock stands abruptly and hastily excuses them from the table. John gives his half-finished food a forlorn look, and hurries after him.  
  
Belowstairs, the silver-haired waiter that had been assigned to the head table is talking to several of the servers in a corner. Sherlock says, just above a whisper, “John, wait for us in that alcove. I will bring him over to you. We need a relatively private place to interrogate him. Can’t afford to draw any more attention. He has a daughter. In her twenties. Recently released from a drug rehab facility of some kind.  I’ll tell him that the venue manager has received an emergency phone call for him. He’ll jump to obvious conclusions and be more than willing to follow me.”  
  
“How the hell do you know—? Right, go ahead. I’ll be waiting.”  
  
Sherlock nods and rushes off. John imagines the man slipping into one of his many personas as effortlessly as if he is putting on a mask. Like many things Sherlock has done during cases, his ability to transform into a casually trustworthy neighbor, a besotted lover, a bereaved friend or a ruthless interrogator at a moment's notice both amazes and unsettles him.  
  
He takes his place in the blind spot of one of the Crypt’s unused chambers. A minute later, Sherlock ushers the head waiter into the shadowy alcove. His face crumples in confusion. “What is this? What’s going on here?”  
  
John speaks up as Sherlock twists the man’s arm behind his back to temporarily immobilize him. “We only want to ask you a few questions.” He uses a calm, level tone, the one he uses in speaking with his patients at the clinic. It doesn’t have the desired effect. The man twists to wrench himself out of Sherlock’s grasp.  
  
“Ouch! What the hell? Let go of me!”  
  
John gives a resigned sigh and pulls out his gun. There've been very few moments in his life outside of Sherlock's cases in which he's been given the chance to inspire such sudden, unstinting respect. It's unnervingly enjoyable.  
  
After a moment of complete silence, Sherlock leans in and starts the interrogation.  
  
As it turns out, the waiter has been blackmailed into serving the unusual plate in silence, but he doesn’t know by whom. He was sent several threatening texts, followed by instructions as to which plate to take up, and hasn't interacted with anyone involved in the plot in person. Essentially, he's a dead end.  
  
They detain him, for his own protection, and everyone else's-- _detain_ meaning tucking the bloke into a nearby closet, gagged to keep him quiet, and handcuffed to a pipe, to await an MI5 pickup that'll show up within two minutes. It occurs to John to wonder whether Sherlock always carries handcuffs with him.  
  
They head towards the stairs that lead up to the main hall and John can’t help but ask again, “So you’re absolutely certain that the killer hasn’t left yet?”  
  
Sherlock sighs. "He won’t leave until the murder is completed.”  
  
“Then he must have a backup plan.”  
  
Sherlock stops abruptly on the steps, but doesn’t turn around. “A backup?”  
  
“Well, if the killer hasn’t panicked by now, then he must have another plan.”  
  
Silence, and then Sherlock turns and grasps John’s shoulders. His face is intent. “Then the game's still on! The murderer knew I would be here tonight. He must have suspected that my brother was closing in on him, and hoped that I would let my guard down if he made me believe I had foiled his plan. If I believed I had stopped the murder, then I would turn my attention to finding the killer, distracting me from the actual murder taking place. The quail failed, but he's still here, so he must have a second plan in place.”  
  
“Jesus, Sherlock. It might not have to do with food at all. It could be anything.”  
  
Sherlock doesn’t seem to be panicking quite yet. “It might not be the food, but it might be. Oh clever, clever. Is it a bluff, or a double bluff?” Sherlock steeples his fingers in front of his mouth as the possibilities run through his mind.                      
  
There's movement below. John studies the wait staff gathering at the foot of the stairs.  “They're bringing out the cake.” An idea strikes him. “Sherlock, what if the cake—”  
  
“Not that, not something baked. Very difficult to poison one serving of cake without poisoning the whole lot.”  
  
“Alright—alright, then. What about poisoning a drink serving? Or mixing in a drug to produce anaphylactic shock? Or, I don’t know, maybe—”  
  
Sherlock's gaze sharpens and John thinks for a second that he’s finally hit on a good idea. But then he notices that Sherlock is looking past him.  
  
Sherlock is staring at a line of kitchen staff arranging desserts for the final course.  
  
"Cranachan!" he says excitedly under his breath, and dashes back down the stairs.  
  
John wants to ask him what the hell that is but settles for hurrying after him as Sherlock swirls through the room and comes to a dramatic halt beside one of the pastry chefs, drizzling honey into a dish.“What ingredients are you using there?”  
  
“What? Who are you?  You're not supposed to be back here.”  
  
The collective waitstaff's staring, clearly curious about the commotion. Thankfully none of them step in. “Answer his question.” John gives the man a pointed look. “Now,” he adds, a bit more forcefully, when the man hesitates.  
  
He wilts a bit. “It's, uh, double cream, whisky, and--and heather honey. But why are you—?”  
  
Sherlock interjects before he can finish his question. “Yes. The ingredients for cranachan. Or they would be, if that actually was heather honey you were using just now. But we both know better than that.” He gives the man a cold stare that makes him twitch  nervously.  
  
“Sir, I don't think—”  
  
“The color and viscosity of the honey is all wrong. Scottish heather honey displays thixotropic properties. The honey enters a gel-like state when motionless, but liquefies when stirred. It is also a yellowish-brown color, like the honey in the other servings; not at all like the dark red honey you are using on this one. You can't possibly have missed that. I need to taste it.” He reaches for the jar of honey, and the chef blocks his hand.  
  
“What? Taste—? No this is for the wedding guests. You can't just—!”   
  
Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Which guest?” He turns to John and inclines his head toward the pastry chef. “John, we have no time for this. Please detain this imbecile while I examine the dessert.”  
  
It's been far too long since John has had use for these skills. In moments, he has the chef’s arm twisted behind his back, and Sherlock has the jar of honey.  He dips the tip of his pinky finger in and tastes it. His eyes light with conviction, and he straightens up.  
   
“Sharp taste, slight numbing the tongue, faint burning sensation in the back of the throat. Grayanotoxin.”  
  
“Graya--what?”  
  
Sherlock beams. “Grayanotoxins are produced in plants such as _Rhododendron ponticum_. The flowers contain alkaloids that are poisonous to humans. The bees feed off the nectar of Rhododendrons, thus producing a poisonous honey. The toxins are not eliminated because the honey is not commercially processed, it's harvested locally. Taken in smaller amounts the poisoned can cause dizziness, weakness, low blood pressure, and nausea. But a larger dose of honey contains high enough levels of grayanotoxin to cause full body paralysis and respiratory failure. Colloquially, it is known as 'Mad Honey.' And it most definitely does not belong in a traditional Scottish dessert.”  
  
The pastry chef snorts and tries to pull free of John's grasp. “That's ridiculous. That's just regular honey. The only thing that's mad here is you, mate. Let me go!”  
  
John grins at Sherlock over his head. “Bees collecting poisoned honey, and you recognize the type on sight? Utterly brilliant. I would ask if you're sure, but you love bees; you must have learned all about them. You probably know honey just as well as you do tobacco ash.”  
  
Surprise flashes across Sherlock’s face. His eyes narrow slightly. “How do you—?”  
  
“Janine told me. She sends her regards, by the way. Wants you to come visit her apiary in Sussex. Why did you never tell me you like bees?”  
  
A bit quietly, “You never asked.”  
  
“Fair enough. Uh, what now, then?”  
  
His expression sharpens. “Alert security. Have them hold this man until Scotland Yard arrives.” The click of a second pair of cuffs on the man's wrist is followed by his angry shout as Sherlock neatly attaches him to a worktable.  
  
John gives Sherlock a long look (how many pairs of cuffs does he have?) and then turns to the staff. “Alright, you heard him. Alert security. Make sure he doesn't leave till they're here. Sherlock, are you going to—?”  
  
“Already texted Mycroft. They'll pick him up too."  
  
“Well, now that that’s taken care of, what shall we do?”  
  
Sherlock smiles. “We go back upstairs, have some cranachan, and catch a killer.”

  
  
Upstairs, John eats a spoonful of his glass of cranachan, savoring the crunch. “So. Poisonous honey.”  
  
“Yes.” Sherlock's eyes are moving constantly over the room. They're standing with their backs to the wall, watching the tables and chairs be cleared away in preparation for dancing.

“What kind of nutter would produce poisonous honey? Doesn't seem like it would have much market appeal.”  
  
Sherlock smiles, with the patience he reserves for only John. “There are over seven hundred species of rhododendron flowers in the world, but just three are poisonous. Furthermore, there are only a few locations where these particular flowers can be found. One such place is around the Black Sea. The humidity and mountainous slopes there provide the ideal habitat for the toxic flower to grow in monocrop swaths. The locals believe the poison honey has medicinal quality; their apiarists harvest it and sell it as a delicacy. We call it 'Mad Honey,' but they call it deli bal.”  
  
“Deli bal. What language is that?”  
  
“Turkish.”  
  
“Turkish?” Something clicks in John’s head. “Sherlock.”  
  
His eyes flick over to John once and then back to the hall. “What?” Then he straightens up abruptly. “Oh— _oh!_ Turkish. The quail and the hemlock seeds, the bees and the rhododendron nectar--both poisons originate in Turkey.”

His excitement sends a jolt of happiness through John; he laughs a little breathlessly. “Not a coincidence?”

“No. Definitely not a coincidence. The universe is rarely so lazy.”  
  
“So, we're--looking for a Turkish bloke then?”  
  
“Improbable.”  
  
“What? Why? It makes perfect sense.”  
  
Sherlock leans back against the wall. “John, why would a Turkish gentleman have any quarrel with a committee of politicians refusing to give international aid to the Somali border? We thought that the killer had planned for poisoned quail because he knew that the Ambassador had chosen a traditional Turkish entree in honor of his roots. But that doesn't explain why the killer brought in poisonous Turkish honey.”  
  
“And you said cranachan calls for heather honey. He planned to taint a Scottish dessert with Turkish honey. Seems a bit out-of-the-way, unless he's got a theme going. Does that really tell us anything?”  
  
Sherlock's eyes are unfocused, considering. “If anything, it tells us that this killer is well versed in Turkey's horticulture and history. Now, the quail you could get anywhere. All he would need to know is how to feed the bird hemlock seeds to achieve maximum toxicity. But deli bal, that's a bit trickier. It's a rare delicacy, potent, dangerous, secreted away where unaware tourists won't get their hands on it. It would have taken real effort to find a shop that sells it. This means the killer would have had to recently visited Turkey and returned to the UK with the deli bal in his possession. But a radical sympathizer here on a falsified work visa most certainly wouldn't be flying off the Turkey on a whim.”  
  
“What I want to know is who puts that much effort into a murder? Doesn't seem like a political terrorist would bother with all this drama. Wouldn't it be easier to just kill his targets with, I don't know, a sniper, or a dose of ricin powder? Why make his plan so elaborate?”  
  
Sherlock gives John a sidelong glance; smiles a little. “Why indeed, John? If he's not a Turkish native and not a radical Somali sympathizer, he must be emotionally connected to his victims. The refusal of aid to the Somali border must have affected him, or someone close to him. It's personal. But why would that prompt him to go to Turkey just to obtain such an obscure poison as deli bal?"  
  
“The other poison's just as strange a choice. Quail meat tainted with hemlock seeds?”  
  
“Mm, yes. So, a world traveler, likes obscure culturally-themed murder methods? An overenthusiastic gardener, loves his plant-based poisons?”  
  
John straightens. “Wait, a gardener?”  
  
“Yes.”  
   
“Someone that has recently visited—oh, my God, Ankara.”  
  
Sherlock sighs. “No, someone that has recently visited Turkey, John.”  
  
“Ankara is in Turkey, you tit. It's the capital. I stopped over there once with some mates on leave.”  
  
“Okay, so Ankara is the capital of Turkey. What does that matter?” Sherlock looks a bit embarrassed.  
  
He raises his eyebrows, surprised. “Sherlock, we've already met someone who has recently visited Ankara and used to garden as a hobby. Someone who is personally connected to all this. Marianne Mathisen."  
  
Sherlock's frozen for a moment; then he shakes his head in disbelief. "Of course. Not a he; a she. It's always something."  
  
"But why her?"  
  
He gives John his patented _Isn't it obvious?_ look. "Her brother. The one that died on his fourth field assignment, John. He must have been working on the Somali boarder.”  
  
“And they didn't give aid to the border, so he was--what?”  
  
“Killed by the insurgents, starved out--doesn't matter, in the end. Her brother perished because of the committee’s decision, and she wanted revenge. She probably planned on killing David next—by means of arson, most likely, staged to look like an accidental house-fire started by a poorly-snuffed match or a smoldering butt, given his cigar-smoking habit. Finish off the others however she liked. And then she could fake her own death—No! No, she's cleverer than that. She could fake a kidnap for ransom. Make it look like she was being held hostage by this 'radical sympathizer,' stage her execution, taken the ransom, and flee,” Sherlock finishes, almost matter-of-factly, as if anyone could have figured all this out with just a bit of analysis.  
  
It washes over him, the irrepressible wonder he'd always felt when--“That was incredible, how did you—? God, you're—Sherlock, do you have any idea how amazing you are?”  
  
Sherlock blinks a few times, his cheeks pinking a little. It really has been too long since they did this together. “Sorry, too much?”  
  
“No, it's--fine.” A shy sort of happiness shines in Sherlock’s eyes.  
  
The glow of it settles inside John. He clears his throat. “Uh—Carry on then.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes flick down and away, refocusing. He takes a quick breath. “We've got the killer, we've got the weapon, and we've got the motive. I believe it's time to tell Mycroft.”


	5. One Experimental Variable Is Proving Difficult To Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs used for the dancing were carefully chosen by Jen for their romantic sound and Johnlocky lyrics--look them up for an extra sense of the scene.

“On it.” John taps out a text to Mycroft and receive an immediate reply. “Alright, he says MI5 will be in position to extract her in a few minutes. Most of the original agents here tonight just left with the staff members we detained.”  
  
"But she'll have noticed already that the poison hasn't taken effect. She might try to leave before that. We ought to find her.”  
  
“Well, we can't cause a scene like we did at my wedding. You said your brother doesn't want the public catching wind of this.”  
  
“What do you propose we do when we catch up to her, then? Ask her nicely to turn herself in?”  
  
“No. We try to get her talking about the one part that really matters to her, the part she's kept quiet all these months.”  
  
“Her brother?”  
  
“The baddies always love to talk about themselves. It’s worth a try,” John shrugs, and they begin to make their way through the crowd as unobtrusively as possible. When they've nearly reached the back wall, a fresh draft trickles past John, and he looks up to see an emergency door open, and someone slender and blonde just ducking through.

"There," he says. They hurry along the wall and step out after her into the cool night. Sherlock clears his throat, and she freezes.  
  
When he speaks, his voice is level and low. “Your brother would be ashamed of you, Ms. Mathisen, using his death as a reason to kill so many people. Sentiment seems to have clouded your logic.”  
  
She turns. Her eyes shine in the moonlight. There's a hint of a smile on her mouth, and John's stomach drops. “It may have started out of pure sentiment, Sherlock Holmes. Ties of blood are a very effective motivation. But then I learned about the satisfaction, the sense of accomplishment in removing from the face of the planet the people who have caused it so much pain. My brother was a healer. These men are killers, and the cowardly, pale, paper-hearted kind; doing their work with the stroke of a pen, far from the dust their victims drop into. I deal with them on their own terms. And I do it without any shame.”  
  
Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “You're not much like your brother, are you?"  
  
The woman’s cold eyes bore into them. John has seen those eyes before--on the face of someone he’s pledged vows to, as she'd faced Sherlock in the dark, watched him wince, bleeding inside from her shot, and told him calmly, _I'd do anything._  
  
 John answers on Marianne's behalf, his voice filled with disgust. “She's nothing like her brother. She enjoyed this."  
  
Marianne’s eyes lock on John’s for the first time since their encounter. He meets her look and repeats, with all the venom he's never let Mary see since that night, since he decided the only way to keep them all safe was to play along, “It’s all a game to you. You—you enjoy it.”  
  
She looks mildly impressed. His skin crawls.  
  
Her gaze slips back to Sherlock. “My, my, Mr. Holmes, your doctor seems to have superseded your skills of deduction. Well done, Dr. Watson. And here I was thinking you were all brawn and no brains.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I make it a point to have both.” John pulls out his gun and points it at her chest.  
  
“Oh come now, Doctor. You wouldn’t shoot me at such a high profile event.”  
  
“Try me.”  
  
“John.”  
  
His gaze shifts over to Sherlock, and in a split second Marianne has reached out and disarmed him.  
  
She points the gun at Sherlock. Her level stare shifts between them, assessing.  
  
“Mm. Sentiment. You are right, Mr. Holmes, it does cloud one’s judgement. I can see it now.”  
  
John breathes slowly, deeply; keeps his eyes on hers.  
  
“Now here is what’s going to happen, boys. You are going to turn and walk back into the hall as if nothing has happened and I am going to leave. I've people waiting. I'll be out of your reach before you can shout." She flutters an impatient hand. "Off you go now.”  
  
John gives Sherlock an apologetic look. He shouldn’t have broken his concentration. She’s right. John’s sentiment put them both at risk.  
  
Slowly, Sherlock reaches behind him and pushes the door open. They back into the hall. The door closes, and Marianne's gone.  
  
John lets out a shaky sigh; smiles ruefully. “Well. That didn’t go as planned.”  
  
Sherlock grins back, without a hint of the disappointment John expected. "Nonsense, John! Your plan worked perfectly."  
  
John opens his mouth to retort, but is cut short by a sudden, furious shout, a woman's shout, from the alley behind the building.  
  
Mycroft’s men have found her.  
  
Sherlock laughs aloud at John's relief. “Shall we go and wish our philanthropic serial killer farewell?”  
  
“Thought you’d never ask.”  
  
Outside the hall, Sherlock and John approach the nondescript car she'll be transported in. An agent rolls the window down, and Marianne glares up at them.  
  
Sherlock smiles slowly. "You nearly got away with it. Most people would have never even noticed the honey was deli bal. But I'm not most people."  
  
Marianne’s eyes are full of disgust. "Ah yes, you're the great Sherlock Holmes. So much cleverer than the rest of us."  
  
The detective raises an eyebrow, amused. "Clever? I didn't need to be clever to stop you. I simply benefited from your ignorance of one critical detail."  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" she scowls.  
  
Sherlock’s face remains serious, but John can tell he’s relishing this moment. "I know honey. I absolutely love bees."  
  
"He's obsessed with them," John adds.  
  
Sherlock gives John a bright smile, a real smile. "Indeed. They're second on my very short list of obsessions--only so much space on the hard drive."  
  
Marianne snorts, and John frowns. “Really? Second? What comes first, murder techniques?”  
  
But Sherlock's turning away toward the hall. "John! I believe we have some celebrating to do. Shall we?" He inclines his head toward the door, and holds out his arm.  
  
John meets his hopeful gaze, and takes it, and lets himself be led back into the light of the wedding hall.  
  
The room is quiet, a gentle song is playing, and the warm glow of the chandeliers is the only illumination in the soaring space, except for a single spotlight on the dance floor, where the two grooms sway slowly with their mothers in their arms. Already finished their first dance, then, and having a traditional mother-son dance to follow it. As the song comes to a close, the ambassador kisses his mother's cheek, and she pats his with an enormous, fond grin, while his husband submits to a tight hug from his mother. When it breaks apart, both of them wipe tears off their faces with self-conscious smiles. Applause swells, and dies down, as the two men turn to look for each other. As they start over the dance floor toward one another, the deejay's booming voice comes over the speakers. "Friends, honored guests and family members, it's time for everyone to join in. Please fill the dance floor for the classic, the Righteous Brothers' 'Unchained Melody.'"  
  
Guests stream onto the floor; children spinning in circles, young couples with wide smiles, older couples moving carefully, contentedly together. For a while, the two men just stand off to the side and watch. The music moves from romantic to joyous to tongue-in-cheek classics and back again. Then Sherlock says, “I think I’m going to request a song.”  
  
“What, really?”  
  
“Problem?”  
  
“No, it’s just—never mind. Go, knock yourself out.”  
  
Sherlock makes his way through the dance floor towards the deejay's area. John watches him leap up onto the low platform the man's working on, leaning over to be heard through the music, gesturing. He tries to think what Sherlock might ask for, and draws a blank--something he'd play at home, Tchaikovsky? Debussy? That can't be right. Now that he thinks of it, before the Watson wedding, Sherlock had tutored John to some dorm-room party-song standards John remembered from his uni days. So there's more to Sherlock's repertoire than he'd have guessed.  
  
As Sherlock jumps down off the platform, smiling broadly, the young red-headed woman from earlier emerges from the crowd, her friends close behind.  
  
Oh, God. She’s going to ask him to dance with her. John cringes inwardly, hoping Sherlock won't be too harsh, and then freezes in disbelief as Sherlock--still smiling--nods and follows them out onto the floor.  
  
He throws John a glance of mute invitation. John, stunned, just shakes his head and lifts his glass to the group. Did Sherlock really just agree to dance with a gaggle of women? Has hell frozen over?  
  
There’s a lack of structure to informal dancing. Before his own dancing lessons, John had always thought Sherlock wouldn’t cope well with something so imprecise. He'd thought Sherlock dancing to modern music would be laughable; had imagined that if Sherlock danced at all, it would be the waltz, the tango, something classic and measured and dramatic, learned and performed very logically. He'd been startled when Sherlock had put on Stevie Wonder’s “Sign, Sealed, Delivered” during their third tutoring session, and turned to him with a broad grin. But then, Sherlock would want to be as thorough in teaching him to dance as he was in everything else. John hadn't thought his willingness to try modern movement would extend to any public participation, and he'd been right; at John's wedding, when the music started, Mary had pulled John away into the crowd, and when he'd looked around again, Sherlock had quietly disappeared.  
  
And yet, here John stands, watching Sherlock twirl the redheaded girl around, smiling, looking entirely at home. It's not laughable; it's beautiful. Watching them, his heart sinks abruptly. _Sherlock didn't leave my wedding because he didn't want to dance. So he must have just thought he didn't belong there with us anymore._  
  
It's an awful thought, and it explains that look Sherlock had given him too well. But just as he's starting to get really, properly melancholy, the music in the room shifts to something slower. A piano starts to play a gentle melody in triple time…perfect for a waltz. The realization jolts him out of his memories and he looks out across the floor for Sherlock, and sees just taking the hand of an older woman. She beams as he swings her out gently into the first steps of the dance.  
  
A rich baritone voice begins to sing over the lush, romantic music.  
  
_A mano a mano ti accorgi che il vento_  
_Ti soffia sul viso e ti ruba un sorriso_  
  
Sherlock's partner is laughing; he's looking down at her with a quiet smile as he turns her around and around. Their movement is hypnotic, flawless, effortless.  
  
He's the most beautiful thing on the floor, John thinks. Sherlock's always been the highlight of every room the two of them ever entered, but somehow after everything that's been said and almost-said tonight, he can see Sherlock more clearly, can feel the impact of his loveliness strike him in the chest, his movement, and the contrast of his dark and light, and a wave of jealous yearning rushes through John. It should be him out there with Sherlock.  
  
_La bella stagione che sta per finire_  
_Ti soffia sul cuore e ti ruba l'amore_  
  
Sherlock's so caught up in the dance that he gasps when John lays a hand on his shoulder and smiles past him at the woman.  
  
“Excuse me, ma’am. This man is my date. Do you mind if I cut in?”  
  
Her surprise gives way to a fond smile. "Of course, dear, go ahead." She moves back and John steps into Sherlock's space. He places a firm hand on Sherlock's back and holds out the other for Sherlock to take; smiles as he sees the startled joy rising in Sherlock's eyes.  
  
_A mano a mano si scioglie nel pianto_  
_Quel dolce ricordo sbiadito dal tempo_  
  
Sherlock's arm settles atop his, hand on his shoulder, the other hand reaching out to curl around his, cautious at first, then tender, as they turn and sway, turn and sway. Eventually he finds his voice. “John…”  
  
“Yes, Sherlock?”  
  
All his concentration is on his movement, on leading the sweeping turn of Sherlock's steps, so he misses Sherlock's conflicted expression. “The case has been solved, there’s no more need to—to pretend.”  
  
John laughs a little. “I know.”  
  
_Di quando vivevi con me in una stanza_  
_Non c'erano soldi ma tanta speranza_  
  
“I don’t understand.”  
  
“I’m not pretending, Sherlock. This isn't about the case. I’m dancing with you" _\--because I love you, you beautiful idiot—_ "because I want to.” John pulls him slightly closer to emphasize his point and looks up to see Sherlock still looking troubled, guarded.  
  
_E a mano a mano mi perdi e ti perdo_  
_E quello che è stato ci sembra più assurdo_  
  
John sighs. “Dammit, Sherlock, I didn’t take all those waltzing lessons for nothing.  Now come on.”  
  
Sherlock laughs a little, relaxes into a tiny smile, and John feels the change in Sherlock's body, the way he's softening under John's hands. He looks down, quickly, away from that smile, because if he doesn't he may do something dangerous, with things as they stand.  
  
_Di quando la notte eri sempre più vera_  
_E non come adesso nei sabato sera_  
  
The lyrics are in Italian and therefore incomprehensible to John, but judging from the passion in the singer's voice, they must be profound. He wonders if Sherlock knows enough Italian to understand.  
  
_Ma...dammi la mano e torna vicino_  
_Può nascere un fiore nel nostro giardino_  
  
He looks up to find Sherlock's eyes on him, full of what looks very much like wonder.  
  
_Che neanche l'inverno potrà mai gelare_  
_Può crescere un fiore da questo mio amore per te_  
  
John looks straight back without shame. _I adore you, Sherlock Holmes._  
  
The crescendo of musical feeling subsides and a softer instrumental section begins. Sherlock draws him a little closer, moves a little slower, and then he says low under the music, “Little by little, you are losing me and I am losing you.”  
  
For a moment, John can't breathe, thinking Sherlock's just said it. And then he realizes: he's interpreting the lyrics for John. But there are years of secrets behind his tone.  
  
“But give me your hand and come back close to me. A flower can be grown with my love for you, one that winter cannot freeze.”  
  
“Sherlock…” John’s voice is barely above a whisper. They're not really dancing any more, just swaying together, pulled nearer and nearer by Sherlock's quiet words.  
  
_E a mano a mano vedrai che nel tempo_  
_Lì sopra il suo viso lo stesso sorriso_  
_Che il vento crudele ti aveva rubato_  
_Che torna fedele_  
  
It’s not until John’s face is inches from the crook of Sherlock’s neck that he realizes where he is, and he's so tired of fighting it that he just lays his head down in the warmth of Sherlock's shoulder; feels his surprise, his shaky exhale; feels him slowly settle his cheek on John's hair, and it feels like coming home.  
  
_L'amore è tornato da te_  
  
The song swells into a final crescendo of feeling, and they sway slowly through it--one moment without anything between them at all.  
  
_Che il vento crudele ti aveva rubato_  
_L'amore è tornato da te_  
  
The singer’s final note rings out, a sweet falsetto tone.  
  
For a moment they're motionless; John can't pull away. Then a scattering of applause starts to fill the room. It quickly grows louder, and he lifts his head. Why are they clapping?  
  
John pulls away from Sherlock to get a better view. Oh, God. Every eye in the room is on them. A few lighthearted people are calling, "Encore!" Floss and her friends are taking pictures on their mobiles. Even the grooms have joined the applause.  
  
"This is what happens in Mycroft's circles, where everyone knows the Holmeses," Sherlock murmurs. "Every single person notices every little thing you do." But his eyes are alight, tender, and one hand slides down to rest protectively on John's waist.  
  
John smiles and tries very hard not to blush. Thankfully, he is spared any further embarrassment by a new song beginning to play. When the crooning begins, he immediately recognizes the unforgettable voice of Frank Sinatra.  
  
_I've got you under my skin_  
  
He looks up to find Sherlock watching him with soft, careful half-smile. “They asked for an encore.”  
  
_I've got you deep in the heart of me_  
_So deep in my heart that you're really a part of me_  
  
He grins back. "Let's not disappoint them, then."  
  
_I've got you under my skin_  
  
Sherlock's flushing, now. "John Hamish Watson, would you dance with me?"  
  
“Oh God, yes.”  
  
It's several minutes of total, contented silence and some rather close dancing--John's hair is brushing Sherlock's cheek--before Sherlock speaks again. John can feel the man’s voice deep in his chest.  
  
“Encore aside, I did request this song."  
  
John pulls back slightly and gives Sherlock an amused look.  
  
“You asked for Frank Sinatra? Since when does the great Sherlock Holmes keep jazz standards on his hard-drive?”  
  
“I had hopes that I'd be able to use such knowledge, given the right case.”  
  
John laughs and tugs Sherlock close again.  
  
“That, or you're secretly a romantic.”  
  
“Prolonged exposure to your quite notable romanticism could have that effect, I suppose.”  
  
“Really? That's actually rather fascinating. Go on.”  
  
“It's only a hypothesis at the moment. Tests results are still inconclusive. I'm finding one experimental variable to difficult to control.”  
  
John draws away for a second time. He carefully studies the man’s face.  
  
“Let me guess. Sentiment?”  
  
Sherlock smiles; his eyes warm and glimmer with delight.  
  
“Sentiment.”


	6. Epilogue: Bloodhound

Everyone at the surveillance bank looks up as the door opens to admit Mycroft Holmes and the eternal, unspeaking Anthea. He’s not exactly hurrying, but he’s nearer deserving the description than they’ve ever seen him. He stops in front of the glow of the screens, his face intent in the shadows.

“Just from the moment of departure,” he says, and stands motionless as the footage of the cottage is played back; a door opens; two women, one blonde, one dark, carrying bags of shopping. “The weapons are beneath?” he asks, and the agent responsible for the initial capture and review of the tape nods.

“We think so. The drop-off occurred forty-five minutes ago.”

“We have a tail on the source?”

“Two. He’s on the westbound road.”

On the tape, the two place the bags in the backseat of a red Audi, parked in a patch of moonlight outside the gate; they stand beside it talking earnestly for a moment, and then smaller reaches out, clasps the face of the dark-haired one and kisses her, fierce and proprietary.

Mycroft Holmes sighs; turns to Anthea. “Check in in ten and twenty minutes to confirm Rosamund and Molly’s progress toward the safe house. Is David en route?”

“He’s just left in Simms’ company. They should rendezvous with Molly’s escorts in twelve minutes.” Anthea’s phone sounds an alert. “Agent Allen confirming both Rosamund and Molly are in good health and calm.”

On screen, Mary and Janine get into the Audi. There’s a flick of Mary’s wrist at the dashboard, and the radio turns on, a roaring rendition of Van Halen’s “Romeo Delight.” They pull out into the road.

“That’s enough,” Mycroft says, and lifts his own phone. The room observes a moment of reverent silence while it rings. For Mycroft to make his own call is rarity enough that none of them have seen it before.

A muffled ring, two, then, “John?” Mycroft’s tone is steady and low, but with an edge of something. “I’m afraid the dropoff has occurred several days before we’d expected it. They’re on their way to London. There’s a car waiting for you outside the east exit; the agent inside will debrief Sherlock on your way.” A pause, then, “I’ll convey your apologies to her. She and Rosie are doing well, as of a minute ago; David will rendezvous with them per your suggestion. You did well to acclimate Rosie to him.” Mycroft listens; then, “All right. Thank you, John. And good luck.”

His phone is slipped back into the inner pocket of his jacket. He turns to Anthea; his face has settled into a deadly calm. “Notify the team: Operation Bloodhound is go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Jen's tumblr is @chiglock and mine is @a-candle-for-sherlock.


End file.
